“If you really knew me, you’d know that being proposed to in public would be the last thing I’d ever want. I don’t believe in fairy tales, Richard, but I do believe two people should be together because they love each other, not because it suits their career ambitions or because it’s part of a five-year plan.” She saw him take a step forward but she stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated. “You need to go now. If you’re worried about being seen then you can use the rear exit.”
“I’m virtually a member of your family.” His voice was an ugly growl. “Your father loves me.”
“Then marry my father and I hope you’ll be very happy.” She was calm, trying to diffuse a situation that was threatening to explode, but it was too late and she saw the moment his anger snapped the leash and bolted.
In the past she’d handled every incendiary moment with care, never allowing it to reach this point. She’d soothed, placated and occasionally walked out, putting distance between them.
But it was too late for any of those options now.
The pin was out of the grenade.
His shoulders hunched. His features were contorted and ugly and in that single split second she wondered how she ever could have thought him handsome. On the outside he was perfectly wrapped, but on the inside …
“Richard, you need to get control of yourself.” Her voice was sharp. “Take some breaths.”
“You are a spoiled bitch.”
She flinched as if he’d hit her and then realized in a moment of suspended disbelief that he actually was going to hit her.
His hand came up and instinctively she sidestepped to evade the blow. Her heel caught on the edge of a box and she fell heavily, smacking her head on the corner of the table.
Pain exploded in her skull. Her vision went dark and there was a distant humming in her head. Something warm and wet trickled down her face and she opened her eyes dizzily, trying to see through the pain.
He stood over her, hands raised to ward off the accusation he was clearly afraid she might make. “I didn’t touch you.” There was a hint of panic in his voice. “I didn’t touch you.”
He made no move to help her.
Showed no concern for her well-being, only his own.
Her sense of betrayal deepened.
“Get out, or I swear I will damage more than your career.” Her voice sounded strange and distant. The world around her had blurred edges.
Oh, God, she was going to pass out. Just when she needed to be strong and kick his ass, she was going to faint.
“It was an accident, Sky, a stupid accident because you didn’t look where you were going. You know how dreamy you are …”
“You wanted two words? I’ve got two perfect words for you. Fuck off.” She lifted her fingers to her head and they came away sticky. “Go. Now.”
Crap. Forget ketchup—she was going to get blood on her new dress.
“The press are out there.” He growled the words, his eyes wild as his brain computed the potential PR nightmare. “They’re supposed to be reporting our engagement. Instead you give them this? Damn you, Skylar. You did this, you deal with it. Maybe a blow to the head will wake you up. When you come to your senses, call me. I’ll think about whether or not you’re really what I want.”
Without looking back he strode out of the side entrance and into the night, leaving Skylar lying in her own blood.
WHAT THE HELL were they doing in that room?
Alec prowled round the exhibition, ignoring the other guests. The crowd was thinning out, people melting away, some speculating on the romantic scene that was going on behind closed doors.
The public proposal had taken him by surprise.
Brittany had described him as the “rat boyfriend,” which hadn’t sounded to him like a relationship on the edge of happy-ever-after.
He’d found the proposal uncomfortable to witness, but judging from the oohs and ahhs from the women in the audience, he was alone with that feeling. That was probably why he was single. What did he know about romance? According to his ex-wife, nothing. She’d wanted sweeping gestures and frequent public demonstrations of his love.
Her insecurities and endless demands had made him feel as if he’d been given a life sentence for a crime he’d never committed.
Trying to delete toxic thoughts, he grabbed a glass of champagne and calculated how soon he could make his escape.
As soon as they reappeared, he’d offer his congratulations and leave.
He needed to remember to say what was expected of him—Congratulations, so pleased for you, I hope you’ll be happy—and not what he was instinctively driven to say: Are you both insane?
He paused, his eye caught by a display of jewelry, intricate silver artfully placed on silk the color of a Mediterranean sky. The design was eye-catching and original and the historian in him recognized the nod to shapes and styles used in Bronze Age Greece.
A woman approached and sent him a smile, her intention unmistakable.
Alec turned away without returning the smile.
He didn’t care if she thought him rude. Better to be rude now than have to extract himself later.
Another legacy of his marriage was his aversion to over-polished, high-maintenance women. His relationship with Selina had been six months of sex, followed by an elaborate wedding and two years of bitter arguments that had culminated in an acrimonious divorce.
At her insistence he’d attended two sessions of marriage guidance counseling, ostensibly to “learn about himself.” What he’d learned was that he didn’t like his wife any more than she liked him.
He’d also learned that he was better off alone.
He was too selfish to make a commitment to a woman.
He liked his life too much to sacrifice it for a relationship.
He glanced across the gallery again. The door remained closed, so he moved on. No doubt Skylar and her boyfriend were locked in a romantic moment, promising to love each other forever.
With time to kill, he prowled around the gallery. He knew Skylar worked in a variety of mediums, and it was only as he studied the pieces on exhibit that he reluctantly began to appreciate the range and extent of her talent.
He paused by a large painting, recognizing the rocky coastline of Puffin Island. He was no expert, but even he could see the composition was good. She’d captured the feel of the island perfectly, the sweep of a sandy bay, the movement of the sea and the threatening hint of a storm in the sky. Looking at it, he could feel the salty spray on his face and hear the plaintive call of the gulls.
He felt a pang of longing for his cottage on the wild north coast of Puffin Island. In a few days he’d be going back there and he’d be staying for a month. Long enough, he hoped, to finish a draft of his book. He was looking forward to the solitude.
The painting had a red sticker, which meant that someone had bought it.
Good choice, he thought, and then saw the tall, elegant pot in a dazzling shade of cerulean blue placed under a spotlight against a whitewashed wall.
Instantly he was transported to Greece. He could almost feel the heat, and smell the scent of wild thyme and jasmine.
Of all the pieces in the room, this was the one he would have chosen to